


Enderalean Crusty Bread

by Coriana



Category: Enderal (Video Game)
Genre: Drama, Enderal - Freeform, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Oneshot, Oneshot collection, Romance, Skyrim - Freeform, Spoilers, Sureai - Freeform, Tragedy, Vyn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-24 00:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9689369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coriana/pseuds/Coriana
Summary: Chapter Eleven:"Should your holy duties allow it, meet me at the old watchtower at the Southern gate of Ark."-Take a seat and enjoy a piece. -- A one shot collection of various moments from Enderal: Shards of Order.-





	1. everyday like the last, reprise

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware that this collection of one shots can contain spoilers from any part of the game - please read at your own risk. ^^
> 
>  
> 
> Summary: Jespar contemplates the possibility of making it to Lethonia.

* * *

 

It wasn't often when Jespar was the one to wake up alone. He would admit he had left his fair share of maidens behind as they slept away, only leaving them a goodbye kiss on the cheek that they wouldn't remember. This time he felt the same had been left upon him.

He stretched contentedly, having to try hard to keep his eyes open, which were still heavy with the dregs of sleep. He kept dozing off, only to jerk awake every few minutes, and have to regain his awareness around him each time. Only to nod off again. Every time he awoke to the regret of her not lying beside him, so he could wrap an arm around her, pulling her close…

With a smile on his face, he sighed, savoring the warmth of the sheets. There had been little sleep last night. It hadn't just been the sex, but the after times, where they lay dreaming with their eyes open. They whispered their dreams and ideas aloud, talked about the departure to Lethonia, the adventure encased within it, the hardships and exhilaration of travel, the likelihood of seasickness, and the suffering of cabin fever. But to feel the new, untouched world beneath their feet would be worth it.

She made a dry joke about how the last time she had been on board ship things had not gone very well.

In an attempt to lighten her mood, he told her she would not be here right now with him if things had gone well on the ship.

She smiled, but he could see a quiver in her lip, even if her chin was set sternly. She kissed him, so he couldn't see it.

When one really just took a minute to stop and think about all the crazy shit which had been going on, it was hard to take it seriously. The events had been so bizarre, so surreal, and with him lying in bed, drifting between sleep and reality, surely it must all actually have been a dream? Where in a few moments, after he woke up, he would have to acknowledge that today was the same as yesterday.

Surprisingly, the thoughts serrated away the last of the drowsiness. He sat up, the covers falling to his waist as he supported himself by his elbows. He judged the time by the way the sunlight mildly shone through the window. It was still early morning.

He wondered when she had left him, to go off and clear her head. Apparently it had been before the sun had risen. It had been in the middle of the night when he had finally started to drift off, after another bout of sex, their talking becoming sleepy murmurs. But she must have been unable to close her eyes and slumber, even after he had accidentally fallen asleep. She must not have been able to.

But it was no surprise she couldn't sleep peacefully. After all, the fate of the world was resting on her shoulders.

She needed time to gather her thoughts. And in those desperate times, the best was the very early in the morning, before the world woke, before the sky lit up, before the sun rose. When the air was silent, still cold and damp with dew, and the empty city streets and the din of the people were tranquil and gray. It helped clear one's mind to better focus on the task at hand.

He dressed in a distracted manner, going through the formal movements while being preoccupied by his thoughts. Thoughts that left his fingers trembling, if he thought about them too much. Things people took for granted – something as simplistic as getting dressed – could be taken away from them without a moment's notice. And yet no one relished in the mere movements of getting dressed, of feeling the fabric of the shirt, the weight of the belt, the fit of the boot. They took it all for granted. Everything.

The normal ruckus of the inn downstairs had already started, even this early. The jaunting laughter, the shouting, the talking.

The normalcy.

Even when there was an army slowly breaking down the defenses of your city, the people turned their eyes away. They find comfort in the things that are still normal. That brings normal, predictable feelings. Feelings they had written off as boring, ordinary, everyday feelings, were now their biggest source of reassurance. The only other option was to panic. The only thing you really could do was wait.

Downstairs, amongst the din of the early morning people finding time to eat in their early morning schedules, amongst their early morning chatter, their early morning plans and ideas, he pulled his pipe out, feeling the texture of the leaves as he filled the bowl, the heat of the flame as he lit it. The comfort of drawing on the stem, the taste of the smoke…

He would keep his eyes forward – on Lethonia. Because he would make it there someday. With her. And if they made it there, then it meant everything turned out as it should. That everything had turned out okay. That they had won.

His fingers trembled.


	2. One Step Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calia's thoughts the day before taking the trial to become a Keeper.

* * *

 

Calia had long ago gotten over emotions such as 'jealousy', 'envy', and the 'desire to fit in'. She could not allow strong emotions like that into her lifestyle, so it was better to release the emotions entirely instead of attempting to fulfill an empty, illogical need.

But sometimes… sitting by herself in the bathhouse of the Sun Temple quarters… she couldn't help but stare.

She stared at the people who enjoyed their time, talking and laughing, lounging on cushions and pillows, drinking something sweet as they gossiped. The scent and steam of the heated, lavender-infused water added to the allure and charm of the picture.

Calia didn't stare for too long. She brought her gaze back to the water, to the smooth, steam-slicked floor, to the elegant comfort of the Quarter's bathhouse, to the pale herbed soap bar in her hand. Calia preferred the peace of nature, or merely the presence of the softer elements. The splash of the water. The feel of the breeze. The comfort of being surrounded by tall trees and high grass. It calmed her. Allowed her to meditate easier, breathe softer, and feel more serene.

She didn't normally come to the bathhouse with others present. For her comfort as much as theirs. Most Novices at this time were headed to the inner workings of Ark for a drink and song or dance. The fact that there were people here at this time was unusual. When she had realized there were others in the bathhouse, she had almost turned back to return to her rooms, not wanting to deal with the uncomfortable ill of not belonging. She took a moment with the struggle of not turning away from something just because of discomfort.

And although she desired some type of connection with people, to be a part of them and talk as them and laugh like them, she at the same time desired not to be a part of them at all. She acknowledged she did not find joy within the things which most individuals her age were smitten with. Within the same moments, she wanted to be left alone as much as she craved attention.

It was not that Calia did not think she could get along with some of the other Novices, but they shied away from her as much as she did them. They either met her with polite, jittery smiles, or straight out smirks and jeers.

In the end, she convinced herself it was better this way. As much as she disliked admitting it, it was easier when they were afraid of her. They stayed away from her. And it was better this way.

It wouldn't be too much longer though until she was no longer a Novice. She would be leaving soon, to take the trial to become a Keeper.

To become a Pathless Keeper.

In all her years, crawling to Ark, surviving in the Undercity, and miraculous events that proved Gods were real, she was here, and she had made it.

She wished her father could see.

He was the only one she could find comfort in, especially when she could never find comfort within herself.

For being comfortable with herself would be accepting her demons. Would be to accept the constant, driving movement behind her, before her, all around her. The feeling of the cold, ruthless tip of an icicle trailing down the bridge of her spine, daring for her to make the wrong move so it could impale her.

Sometimes the dark force felt like a mass of tentacles. Other times, it held the vague shape of a drooping monkey. Many times it was formless, and yet completely to her image, as smooth and black as her shadow itself.

Once, it had the wings of an angel.

She shuddered, despite the steam from the water. A dark chill ran across her back, making the fine hairs on her neck stand on end, and she was hit with the sudden pitfall-feeling in her stomach.

She turned her head slowly, but there was nothing behind her.

Not even her shadow.

She berated herself for looking backwards, knowing that the buried throbbing deep in her mind wasn't tangible at all. At least not in this reality. And yet she still would look. She still feared its cold claws wrapping its fingers around her throat, both suffocating her and allowing her to fully breathe at the same time.

Becoming a Keeper would not make this go away. She knew that. She knew it. But she wanted the new position to force her even more to train harder and become better at controlling every ounce of her that sin could touch. She wanted to be purified, and she was determined to do so, even if it meant the death of her.

And because Calia had learned not to feel useless emotions such as jealousy or envy, she did not feel resent for this random, new individual that had shown up suddenly within these last few weeks. Novices spent a great deal of time learning before becoming a Keeper, and Calia was surprised when she and Dunwar had been informed that this random individual would be taking the trial with them on the morn. Dunwar was incredibly opposed, but Calia just accepted the fact as is. She trusted the decisions of the Grandmaster. She understood sometimes people had things handed to them.

A loud round of laughter complete with applause brought Calia back to the present moment. There they were, sitting and enjoying themselves. Talking about useless things. Enjoying the mindless moments.

But… they were happy.

And if being mindless and nonsensical made you happy, then who was she to judge. Perhaps it was her who was in the wrong.

 _Just one more step,_ she would tell herself, _just one more step and then you can be happy, too._

But it was always just _one, more, step._


	3. Joseph Dal'Varek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jespar meets Constantine for the first time.

* * *

 

Jespar was used to getting hired from all sorts of clientele, from the high-class to the rugged, but having his services requested from someone within the Sun Temple was new and unusual. He didn't know why someone would need lost artifacts stolen for them within a religious Order – besides, don't they normally just show up and take what they want? He was originally going to decline the offer, but he was slightly hesitant after hearing the quoted fee for his work.

At first, Jespar told the messenger that he would consider accepting after he heard about what he was to do. The messenger answered that he wasn't partial to that information, and Jespar would need to go directly to the employer to hear the details.

The money swayed him, in the end.

In truth, the hardest part was actually getting _into_ the Sun Temple. He was, understandably, halted at the gate and, but in more polite words, told to shove off. It took some haggling to even get them to listen to him, but he was a charming fellow and they eventually saw his way to at least contact Mysir Constantine Firespark.

Things got messier from there, since the names were matching up haphazardly. Firespark said he had called for a 'Joseph Something-or-Another', while there was a Jespar Dal'Varek waiting at the gate. Jespar found out from a couple guards and novices mumbling to each other that apparently Firespark had something of an 'irk' when it came to names, so they couldn't be sure of his source.

They finally let him in with a heavy warning of them watching his every move.

Jespar was used to that anyway, so he allowed someone to guide him to Constantine Firespark. As they went, the guide gave him names of the buildings and their purposes, and detailed history of them as they walked, hardly stopping to take a breath. He was sure enthusiastic about it.

The Sun Temple grounds and buildings were beautiful, in their elegant design, white-washed stone, and dark trim, with windows lining the walls. And there was, of course, the infamous balcony, being held up by the hands of their god.

His first meeting with Firespark was… peculiar, to say the least. The wizard appeared old physically, with many wrinkles to his face and a gray, bushy beard, to make up for the loss of hair on his head. But this was no kindly, grandfatherly-type of old man. Certainly not. He did not give off the aura of being easily pushed around. He in fact gave off the vibe that he would have no fear of pushing you around and then off of the infamous balcony.

He eyed Jespar, sizing him up. "You're less professional looking than I thought you'd be. That's good. You'll blend in better with where you're going to go."

"Well, Mysir Firespark," Jespar said, "Thank you for the compliment. But I haven't quite committed to anything yet. You see, I like to know the details of what I'll be doing before I agree with doing it."

"I see," Firespark grunted. "Then there's the door. See yourself out. The problem is, Joseph, is that I'm not going to divulge information to a scat that's going to just turn around and not accept the terms but manage to carry away valued statistics."

Jespar sighed. The pay was too good to be reluctant.

"All right. You have my word."

"Hopefully that means something to you, because it means nothing to me." Firespark shelved a book he had been holding. His equally bushy eyebrows frowned. "How reliable are you in a fight?"

"I can more than handle myself."

"And if you're captured how dependable are you of not blabbering when you're being tortured?"

"I, um, try not to end up in such situations…"

"Hmph. Well, if it means anything, you definitely do not appear to be the type to hold out very long."

"Thank you. I value your opinion on the matter."

"No, you don't."

"Can I ask what kind of job am I going to be _doing_?"

"I presume you've heard about the Red Madness case with the late Magister."

"Yes," said Jespar, keeping his eyes down in respect. "A horrible circumstance, really."

"Hm. I suppose. It was certainly one way to flunk an entire class."

Jespar, who would consider himself a very ruthless man, even lost control of his jaw with the statement.

"Even so the matter isn't to be taken lightly – why is your jowl slacking like that? You're going to start drooling all over the floor – and I want to uncover as much as I can about the man before drawing conclusions. Perhaps he was already prone to insanity. Or he had a traumatized childhood. I didn't know the man, but no one else seemed to know him either, even though they were personally acquainted with him. No one could answer my questions, which is why I hired you. I need base answers to work off of. A man was inflicted with the disease of the Red Madness in the middle of the Order and yet no one noticed. Pity."

"Mysir Firespark, how much do you know already about the Red Madness?"

"Basically nothing. No more than the common folk are aware of, and it's horrific. We're ducks who keep swimming in circles, for every time a new theory arises, it gets debunked by something else – hey, you dolt! Did I give you permission to leave that there! No, don't try to talk. Go bother someone else and take that with you."

Jespar had initially jumped when Firespark had started reprimanding, thinking it had been towards him, but in the end he watched a young novice scurry back out of the room with some papers.

Firespark shook his head, crossing his arms. He continued the conversation, forcing Jespar to not miss a beat.

"And they call themselves advanced. It shows how advanced they are. But I digress. We know nothing. Characteristics are scarce besides the flaming red eyes and the brutal loss of consciousness at the very end. We've yet to be able to define a precursor."

"Do you think there is one? Or do you think that when their eyes start glowing is when they've really been hit with it?" Jespar asked.

"Hmmm, as if they did not have the disease until the very moment their eyes turned red and they go berserk? Interesting. Then it would mean that we're not dealing with an illness or disease, but a sudden, rampant infection. It is not very consoling in any way."

"Or something that's not even truly… physical or normal."

"What are you getting at, Joseph?"

"It's Jespar. And, I don't know, maybe it's not even a disease?"

"You are right about one thing – you don't know, and we will keep it that way." Firespark looked him straight in the eye, and Jespar had to try hard to keep his ground and not shrink away. How could someone wearing bright green robes be so intimidating?

"Things are highly confidential here," he said, "No one knows what's going on, but you can guarantee that you know less. But you will know that I did not invite you here to banter, but to do your job."

Jespar sighed. "As you wish. Where will I be heading, and what's the objective?"

"You will be going to his childhood home, Riverwater, and you will uncover any thing you can about the late Magister Yero. Anything and everything. You'll report back here once you're finished."

"I'm assuming you mean Riverville, along the Sun Coast, which is… quite a distance."

"Are you quite finished complaining? Get a move on then, if it's so far away. Good day to you, Joseph Veranda."

"Yes, it's Jespar. Thank you, Bushy Beard."

"Hmph. And remember – tell no one of your doings and come back alone."

"Of course. You have my word."


	4. Black or White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calia's trial to become a Keeper leaves her shaken.

* * *

 

This is the trial, Calia told herself. She could see nothing through the sticky dimness. This is a hallucination. _A dream._

_This isn't real._

She closed her eyes. She breathed slowly. Her vision began to clear as her heartbeat slowed. She did not expect her surroundings.

It was her father's old room. There was the scent of vanilla and oranges. The soft feel and aroma of the floral spring air drifting through the open window. Pale golden light from the early morning sunshine made decorations and patterns on the wooden floorboards.

Her father was on his bed, tucked into the covers, cold despite the gentle, comfortable warmth. His eyes, normally so bright and lively, seemed dim.

He lay dying.

Calia's heart started to race again.

With an outstretched hand that wobbled a little, he spoke on soft, whispered words. "Come here, Sa'Ira."

Her movement towards him was automatic, her eyes glossing over with tears, to feel his warm touch again…

But she stumbled, pulled down by an unwavering force, which felled her to her knees. In the same moment someone walked passed her. Calia watched in confusion as she looked up towards her form, herself, strolling towards her father's bedside and grasping his hands.

I must be watching the memory, she thought to herself, trying to keep her heartbeat slow.

But the Calia of the memory looked back towards her, and smiled. It was not a smile of peace or woe. It was a smile of mockery and wickedness and knowledge of what was about to happen.

"Father," the false Calia said, "How cold your hands have become."

Calia tried to stand, but the pain was too much. The strain within her legs felt as if the tendons in her muscles were stretching and snapping, left her gasping in pain and shock, the tearing sensation ripping all the way from her feet to her shoulders and neck.

"Sa'Ira," her father was saying, and she couldn't bear to listen. "You'll be all right here, even if I'm not beside you. You know their words cannot hurt you, not if you don't let them."

"I don't know, father," the other Calia was saying, aloof and sardonic. "All I've done is suffer since you've brought me here. I'm picked on and ignored. They run away because I'm a freak. Sometimes, I wish you'd never taken me out of the gutter of the Undercity. I was accepted there."

The hurt in her father's eyes tore Calia's heart out.

"And you brought me here and probably laughed behind my back as I struggled to keep up with the amount of schooling and studies and prayers. It was probably fun to watch me suffer, wasn't it?"

_No, stop!_

But she couldn't scream. There was no speech in her throat. She was petrified, paralyzed to the spot.

_Useless._

The fake Calia dropped her father's hand, laughing as he weakened. "Oh, _father_ , I've been waiting so long for you to die."

The monster left him there, as soft tears rolled down his face. Calia stretched her hand out, despite the pain that burned and clawed at her arm and fingertips, the feeling of a thousand needles jabbing into her skin.

She stretched, but she couldn't reach.

Her father died alone.

 

 

"Do you recognize it, Sa'Ira? I thought you would like to see it again."

Calia's head snapped up, stunned from the change of scenery. There were trees, there was a clearing, but she wasn't in the Whisperwood.

Had she blacked out? Where was she?

She closed her eyes, whimpering, even though the pain was gone and she could move again. The trial wasn't over yet.

"Sa'Ira."

Her eyes connected with it. It was sitting upon the edge of a roof, of a hollowed, burned out house. It was her. Her face, her body. The same smile. Evil. It's whole aura. Dark and dirty.

It was her demon. Her nightmare smiling at her.

It grinned. "You're awake, Sa'Ira. Do you recognize the place?"

Calia looked around. She recognized it. She recognized it even without the fire and charred flesh and screaming.

"Such a horrible thing you did to such a sweet town. Even though they took you in and cared for you. What did they ever do to deserve such a thing, Sa'Ira? Was it really so bad that you had to kill all of them and feel pleased with yourself afterwards?"

"It wasn't me," she said, but her voice was meek.

"I'm sorry? Hm? What's that?"

"It wasn't me." Her voice came out clear and strong as she rose to her feet. She kept her eyes on its own. "It was you, you bastard."

"Oh, Sa'Ira, dear, but I _am_ you."

"No, you're not." She shook from panic and doubt, her original power quickly fading. But her voice was still strong and steady.

"You're a disgusting monster."

"So you've told me," it said, "so they've told _you_."

"I don't believe in you."

"Oooh." It smiled. "Is that going to make the monsters under your bed disappear, hm, Sa'Ira? Is that going to make them run away?"

The demon alighted onto the ground with nary a sound. Calia refused to move, even as it came closer. It was her spitting image.

The manic smile. The calm insanity. The ugly mark. It was all awful. So awful. She was so ugly.

_Ugly ugly ugly._

"Sa'Ira," it said, "Didn't you enjoy killing these people? You did, didn't you? Don't you feel ashamed of yourself? Sa'Ira?"

"Quit saying that word," Calia whispered. "You are not my family."

"We're not family? And yet we're bonded closer than you can even imagine. Sad, sad, Sa'Ira. Despair, regret, anger, shame. We're so close, and you know it."

Whether it wasn't suspecting it, or it didn't care, Calia's fist swung and hit it square in the mouth. The sound was gratifying. But when it just smiled at her, with blood staining and streaming through its teeth, Calia turned and ran.

And ran hard. Into the forest, into the dense trees and foliage, covered in the darkness and shadows and stealth. But it didn't matter how much she ran. Was she going in circles? She saw the clearing that she had run from and stopped.

She saw it at the edge of the forest line.

"Sa'Ira?" it sang, "Where are you?"

Calia slowed her breathing. She could hide. She could hide until the effects of the drug wore off. She would be able to escape then. She had to.

But not everyone wakes back up. She had to suppress a sob, covered her face with her hands. Then how? How does one escape from the trial? Was she doomed to run in circles in a stunted forest, as her demon stalked her at the forest line?

She moved her hands to see the demon, standing right before her, smiling at her onslaught of fear.

"What are you going to do, Sa'Ira?"

Calia lunged forward, her fingers wrapping into her own throat and squeezing hard. But no matter how hard she constricted, it just smiled, not putting up any fight.

"You'll die here, monster!"

It clucked its tongue. "Watch yourself Sa'Ira, how can you say such demeaning things about yourself." Its hands grabbed onto her wrists. The pain was crushing. "Can you? Can you kill me, Sa'Ira?" There was a daunting, psychotic glee in its eyes, even while being suffocated. "I can't imagine how good it would feel. How _empowering_. How _exhilarating_. How _perfect_ it would be to kill your own self. Isn't that what you _want_? To kill your _disgusting_ self?"

Calia's hands started to shake. The harder she held, the less _she_ could breathe. She felt the bruises start to stain her neck. Her fingers slipped from its neck, and she fell to the ground, barely able to get enough breath.

"Sa'Ira," it said softly, wickedly, leaning over her. Blood dripped onto Calia's face from its wounded mouth.

"Oh, don't worry, my Calia," it said. "I won't let you die. I still need you. Go on now. It's time to wake up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Sa'ira doesn't translate to 'family', but it felt like it would be too long to say 'sister-in-law'.


	5. Misfits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jespar's and Adila's last time in the old Shadowsteel Mine before everything fell apart.

* * *

 

"Jespar! Up here! Look up!"

He looked up. Adila was climbing and balancing amongst the beams and reinforcements that continued to hold the old mine together. She grabbed and grappled with vines which had managed to grow with the little sunlight they had. She teetered precariously as she crossed an old stilt. She whooped when she made it to the other side, grabbing a thick-waisted vine to help hoist her down to the bottom.

Fearless she was, and it showed in her wide-mouthed smile.

The old Shadow Steel mine had become their playground over the last few years. Well hidden amongst the sand and the brush foliage of the Powder Desert, it had become their refuge and secret place. Jespar didn't know the whole story of the mine, or how it came to be abandoned, but he believed that the mine breaking into an old rune excavation site had something to do with it.

The lost ones lurked in those parts, and the siblings were careful to keep their distance.

Jespar clapped resolutely when Adila gave an embellished, impish cross between a bow and a curtsy.

"Thank you," she said, still grinning, showing her best at an exaggerated theatre voice. "It _was_ more impressive than when you almost fell off of that beam last week."

"Oh, you're going to play dirty now, huh? It wasn't but two months ago that you wouldn't even go up that high."

She shrugged her shoulders, tossing her pale, silvery hair. It was cut short and a little jagged, the length coming down to her chin.

"I'm past those childish fears. Heights are my friends. Insects are my friends. Dust, grime, and stains are my friends." She smiled, staring up to the ceiling of the old mine, her nose wrinkling, her dark green eyes dancing. "Father has no idea what to do with me anymore."

"Isn't that right – I remember when you wanted to be a princess. Fancy that claptrap, now?"

"I'm done with those childish fancies, too. Now I want to be… a rogue! Or some kind of rogue-ish scholar – something like that. Maybe some kind of treasure hunter. Isn't that right? You'd make a really good treasure hunter, Jespar. We could both be. The Savage Dal'Varek's! How about that?"

"Savage? Did you put your name with the word savage? I can't even imagine you being savage." Jespar leapt forward and tickled underneath her outstretched arms, grinning as she let out a laughing screech and pounced away.

"You jerk! You tickle too hard."

A clashing ring sounded through the cavern. They immediately quieted and stiffened. Jespar's hand lingered over the dagger at his belt. They'd only had one tussle with the lost ones during their whole time here – it had been after the first couple times they had explored the mine. They had wandered into the old runic area, which almost resulted in Adila losing her leg and Jespar his hand.

Although they had managed to get away intact, they never messed with the lost ones within their circle, and didn't take any chances with them.

No other sounds or movements came, even after a time stretch. Jespar released the breath he had been holding, and Adila plopped down next to the wall, pulling out a satchel that had been hidden amongst some fallen rocks.

Adila felt the danger had past, but Jespar kept his wariness about him.

"Want one?" Adila smiled, handing out a spongy sweet cake glazed with sugar icing. "I filched them from the cupboard. Not even the hag that stocks the provisions noticed. See how much skill I've already learned?"

"Thieving from our own household," Jespar said, as he took the sweet, "you've impressed me."

She shrugged. "Just following the tricks you've taught me."

"I have no idea what you mean."

As she threw a piece of the sweet roll at him, she laughed. "Oh, please. I've seen you pinch coins from Father's own purse. He'll beat your backside bloody if he ever catches you."

"I've gotten too good for him to catch me. I'm not worried. Besides, he's too busy most of the time to even notice what we're doing."

"What we're doing…" Adila repeated mildly, her eyes unfocused as she stared at her food. "What will you do, you know Jespar, when we actually follow our Path?"

"I… for real, Adila? You actually asked that? I told you the other day I'm leaving first real chance I get. Sublime or not. Path-abiding citizen or not. It doesn't matter to me. I know it is said people will never be happy if they don't follow their Path, but frankly, I haven't seen many people who follow their Path being the jolliest citizens out there. Have you?"

"Maybe," Adila said.

"So that speech you just gave – wanting to be a rogue or wanderer – isn't really true?"

"I don't know, Jespar, the problem is," she tossed a stone, making it skid across the sandy floor, "is it doesn't always seem feasible, you know what I mean?"

Jespar sighed, turning his head away. "I guess I just want to do more with my life than only listen to people tell me what I have to do with it."

Adila pulled her legs up, resting her head on her knees. "I know you're angry at Father. Especially with what happened yesterday. Father was just fighting for what he felt was right. Isn't that what you're doing right now?"

"What are you saying? That I'm like him?"

"Sometimes, Jespar, you remind me of Father."

Jespar stood up abruptly. He stared up at the ceiling of the mine.

Adila showed up behind him. "I want to help people. Is that so bad? And using my Path to do it… is that wrong?"

"My problem is that people don't want to help people. What Father did yesterday – standing his ground to send the offender to prison – was not for the people who had died by the man's hands. It was just for Father. You don't help people to help them. You help people to help yourself. To make you feel good about yourself. And for no other reason."

"Maybe there are people out there who genuinely want to make the world a better place. People who would give themselves for it. I don't know, Jespar. I guess people can never know." Her eyes shined as she looked up towards the ceiling. "I want to keep going up higher, too. I want to leave my footprints on the world through good. It's so exhilarating, you know? Once you start not letting the wobble in your legs affect you. When you stop worrying about falling. You can feel your breath and heartbeat so differently up so high."

"Careful," Jespar said, knocking her on the shoulder. But he was watching the ceiling, too, could smell the must in the soot, could hear the dripping sound of water ringing from somewhere, could taste the sandy grit on his tongue and teeth just from breathing the air. "If you fly too high, the heat of the sun might melt your wings and make you fall back down."

She scoffed. "Speak for yourself, dork."

"How do you know I wasn't?"

"It's all right," she said. She wiped her nose on her forearm, leaving a dirty smear on her face. He had to resist the need to chuckle at her. He couldn't imagine her without her baby sister tendencies, even though she was rapidly growing up.

"It's all right because…" she continued, "Because if you fall, I'll catch you. And then if I fall, you can catch me. Hey, don't laugh at me! No, I'm not being gushy! I just mean it." She turned her face away. "Because it's good to have someone who you trust to have your back."

"Ah, come on. I'm not laughing at you, I'm just laughing at your seriousness. You're acting like the world is going to fall down any moment." With a hand on her shoulder, he said, "I've got your back. What else would brothers be for?"

"I think you were still picking on me, but I'll forgive you. Father's going to yell at us both when we get back, so, I might as well be on your good side."

"Whatever do you mean? I don't _have_ a bad side."

"Oh-ho! Is that so?"

There was another resounding ring. Like some kind of calling. It left Jespar feeling unnerved.

"Let's go back home," he said. "I have a weird feeling."

"Sure," she said, looking taken aback by his seriousness. "Night has probably already fallen by now, anyway. Maybe no one will notice if we slip in through the windows."

"Nanny might notice. But she'll approve."

Adila laughed, but it turned solemn at the end.

As they picked their way out of the old Shadowsteel mine, dark had indeed fallen. They kept their wits about them as they hurried along their path, being alert for danger in any form. Be it human or animal.

"Jespar, can I ask you something in seriousness?"

"I'm always serious."

"Seriously delusional. But I really do mean it. Can I trust you to always be there for me? Do you promise?"

"Adila, you know someone can't keep promises like that."

"I… you're right. But Jespar, would you try?"

"Sure, Adila," Jespar said, a moment before he could smell the smoke. "I'll try."


	6. Anagnorisis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Tealor's eyes, he was the hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tribute to Andreas Wilde, who in some other Cycle, in some other dimension, was the great Tealor Arantheal. It was a pleasure to meet you, even if it was through another world.
> 
> Walk Blessed.

* * *

 

It was in that moment when Tealor realized it was he who was meant to stop the Cleansing, not the Prophetess. Amongst the flash-frozen carnage of the last Cleansing, amid the dusty and mana leaden air, and the static of the inevitable weighing over them, she chose to disagree with him, even while surrounded by what would happen. She decided to go against everything they had worked for, and stated the option to light the Beacon without the Numinos was the wrong action.

She argued with him even though she couldn't go on. Even with all that had happened, even though there were no more options, she still couldn't let go.

It was why he realized she wasn't strong enough, and why he must be.

He could see it in the dullness of her eyes her time was coming. The glassy blank stare signifying an individual on the verge of death. Tealor had seen it many times throughout his life, as comrades died in his arms, or as strangers he had never met before died on his blade.

"I thought better of you than that. But it does not matter now. I made my choice. I'm sorry."

It was the last thing he had said to her. Although it was unfortunate this was how their partnership ended, he understood what she was going through. But could she not take a second away from herself to understand what the world is going through?

Of course he had wished he would have her support until the end, much like he had done for her, but he was sure her denial was through her pain and confusion. So much had been ripped away from her in these last few months, in these last few hours, in these last few minutes. He wouldn't blame her. But unlike her, when life had torn everything away from his very fingers, he didn't fall and give in, but kept going. But he supposed he couldn't expect in other people what he expected in himself.

The realization weighed on him, heavy on his shoulders, pressing him down in an attempt to make him kneel. Even if she had appeared to be the true Prophetess, in truth it had been him to be the true Prophet. Things that had originally been her responsibility had now become his.

But he would keep moving, no matter how exhausted he was, no matter how hollow inside he felt except for the grim determination that always seemed to keep him going.

His heart seemed to pound, but it was steady when he put his hand to his chest. He pulled out the last teleportation scroll left on him. He had not felt it wise to bring it out in front of the dying prophet, for there was no feasible reason to bring her along. She would die here. Alone, but it was unavoidable. Some things had to be done alone, just as his death at the Beacon would be. There were always ones who had to be sacrificed at the end of the story.

Tealor knew this all too well, as faces of people who he had thought of as friends, people who he thought shared his same ideals, blurred his vision. He blinked and cleared his thoughts. There was no merit in dwelling on something not worth his time. Especially not now.

He spoke the scroll's incantation with bitter resolve. He knew what was taking place on the surface. He knew what he would walk into. He knew he was the one to stop it. The only way to bring it to the end.

And he would do it willingly. He would give his life to save what little life there was left, and that was more than anyone else was willing to give.

The High Ones knew how to execute their plan, and they knew how to handle it very well. But all their bragging had been the demise of them. All their taunting had given him the realization. How would they be able to see this coming? How could they be able to know there was a rigged card in their deck? A circumstance that would set them back far enough to one day stop them?

If they believed humans only ran on their egos, their fear, and hate, then how could they see a human willing to sacrifice their life for the lives of millions of innocents? Would that comprehension be just out of their reach? For how could they foresee someone having so much compassion for the mankind they tormented?

The battle on the surface in the Sun Temple's gardens, now swathed with blood, was jarring at best, although he did not let it show. A place of peace he had strolled through numerous times his entire existence was forever changed in this moment. But the air of battle was always the same, no matter the place. The war of humans upon humans. The clashing ring of cold steel on cold steel. The sultry essence of mana. The screams of the silent dead and the cries of the dying living. The forbidding, pulsating smell of lifeblood, filled with the coppery undertone of dreams, hopes, iron will, and the desire to continue to survive.

As Tealor had known, there were too many Nehrimese for their small numbers. But to see those too few numbers fight bravely and until their very last breath was released from their lips, he was proud. They fought for what they truly believed in, whether it was right or wrong, and showed Coarek and his damn Nehrimese that they were not to be messed with, even while they lost in the end.

Although there was no mana involved, Tealor was filled with a ravishing, thundering power which streamed through his veins, an energy he didn't know he could possess. Perhaps this was how one felt when they reached their life goal. Their own personal reason to live for. And die for.

_Tell me, Narathzul, was this how you felt when you led the rebellion to kill the Light-Born?_

No one could stand in Tealor's way. The crowd parted before him without even knowing he was there.

"Grandmaster!"

The word was shouted over and over as his people spotted him, moving towards him through the battle like a moth to the dying light.

"Was it a success?"

Of course, he told them. He had the Numinos.

"Where are the others?"

The High Ones took them from us.

Sadden looks, especially that of Sister Sakaresh, prevailed amongst the small crowd. It was as if the moment of time stilled in this tiny pocket around them, as they learned the false truth from somebody they trusted.

The fact that the small group of departed, or more rightly so, The Prophetess, brought so much emotion and standstill to a time when they needed to focus and move forward left Tealor disappointed in them. Did they grieve the loss of an individual who they thought would save them? Did they not understand what he was about to do?

He told them it would all be over soon.

He mounted the steps of the great balcony, moving forward at a slow, but steady, pace. The pulsation of the Beacon shook his entire body.

In the end, Tealor could see no one but himself, reflected in the black crystals of the Beacon's power. To activate it would be the end of Enderal, but he was willing to be the one. He was willing to do what no one else could.

He was willing, no matter the price.

He activated the Beacon.

* * *

 

What happened next, he couldn't describe. It was too bright, but it was darkness. It was too hot, and it was too cold. It was too painful, yet there was no pain at all.

He had done it.

* * *

 

He drifted on the fog of a blinding white pain and comforting black peace. His body trembled, but his mind was still. He could see nothing, once again in his life, blinded. All he could perceive was shadows and dimness. He didn't doubt it was from the omnipotent flash of white light of when the Beacon was activated. Soon, it would end though, as the last shreds of his life slipped away.

He could see someone – but who? – the colors were somehow blinding to him, even though they were subtle and doused in delicate hues. He could see a boy dancing amongst the flowers in a field.

Narathzul? But he was a mere boy, how could this be?

Someone else moved towards him, a woman who seemed so familiar even if it had been so long a time. Her beauty stunned him, like she had the first time he had seen her.

This seemed to echo a dream – was it a dream? - he had once had, a time long ago when he was still a prisoner by his son's hand. A dream that echoed another life he could have chosen. That he could have lived.

The woman approached him, until she was a shadow that loomed above, blocking the intense radiance that shone from the sky. She held a sword... No, she held out a hand.

"Irlanda?" he said, but his body wouldn't allow him to reach out to her. "Is… is that you? I did it."

He thought he could make out that the woman smiled down at him, choosing not to use words. The smile seemed to say she understood what he was going through. It was filled with an eternal sadness. But why would you be sad, Irlanda?

"I saved them, don't you see?"

He had managed to bring hope to a world that had none to give. Could she not realize it?

"I led them to the light. I alone."

But the shadow was no longer listening to him.


	7. My Last Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Were regrets a given for the life they chose?

* * *

 

Sometimes, Jespar wondered if they had done the right thing.

Often it was when he watched the sunrise, alone. A sky which resembled the ocean painted the very air with colors left only to the imagination. The heavy scent of the clouds reminded him of the dew. If he closed his eyes, the wind that whispered through the perfect number of trees sounded like an unruly forest. And if he kept his eyes closed, he could see. He could envision the long, destination-lost roads that he could still walk on. Picture the mountains and hills that rolled on into forever. Taste the sand, dust, and tears from the journey ahead and behind.

The only thing he didn't miss or regret was having Kaslyn by his side, safe. But sometimes he thought that she had her regrets, too. Being alive on an island living in the sky was desolate, even if you weren't alone. Alive and cold. Quiet and thunderous. Jespar had thought of asking her if she regretted living, but one day decided that he was too scared to know the answer.

And perhaps it was because he felt it was his fault. She had only done this for him, hadn't she? Against a feeling she knew was right? She had rather gambled to have him survive, than being unsure if the myrad would make it across the ocean to Qyra.

If he had known the outcome of the end, then maybe he would have encouraged her – he felt a bite in his gut for even considering asking her to walk to her death. But for her to live like this, with the motivation and fire drained from her, the seeming reason for her very existence gone? Her purpose shattered, and her will empty and void?

If only he had…

He cleared the thoughts and stood up. The day was starting, and there was surprisingly always a lot to be done.

 

...

 

When they first arrived it didn't take long for them to realize they couldn't only eat the native poultry of this land without losing meat altogether. They began to harvest wild grain seed, and a vine plant that seemed to resemble fruit. They came across an overgrown orchard that took time to clean up the overgrowth of weeds, but the real score was finding the building the Starlings had used as a house to grow plants in.

The 'greenhouse' as it was called (Kaslyn had taken up the liberty of learning the language of the Starlings, as she had acknowledged she had an infinite amount of time on her hands) was used to grow all sorts of green things. Plants that were somehow still viable, if a little disorderly, even after all this time. Whenever they broke through the rubble into a new room, Jespar couldn't help but always be baffled by what new inventions they found in there. For the greenhouse, it was a brilliant invention of pipe work connected along the glass roofing. Under pressure, it released a fine mist of water over the plants that it drew from the underground well. Brilliant.

Kaslyn seemed to find a natural home there, tending to the plants and soil, when she wasn't in the underground archives reading everything and reliving everything her eyes could perceive.

Even so, Jespar did take it upon himself to maintain an outside garden as well, occasionally snickering that he hadn't thought he would have been a farmer so soon in his life. He grew grain, which he and Kaslyn believed was another strand of wheat that the Starlings had invented, having made it was much softer and easier to grind. He built a trellis so that the vine plant with the round, green fruit and fuzzy purple flowers grew well. He even planted some potatoes and carrots, although his carrots never seemed to grow. Kaslyn said he wasn't watering them enough, in which he asked why hadn't the Starlings connected pipes all along the skyline, as well.

The orchard did well on its own, with some random maintenance. It brought big red apples in for them, during what he tried to believe were the 'fall' months.

The absence of seasons was the hardest for him. It made time seem to stand still. Like a moment that lived on forever, a moment where you couldn't tell if everything was perfect, or everything was broken.

In terms of wild game, Jespar and Kas cleaned up what they could only assume were pens for the very same purpose. The most bizarre thing of it all was trying to actually get birds in there, even with the specially designed traps the Starlings had made which they couldn't seem to figure out.

In the meantime, they gathered eggs and Kas attempted to hatch them herself through this machine that was supposed to regulate temperatures. Another peculiar Starling invention. In the meantime of waiting for the chicks to hatch, the weird-looking trap things actually caught a few birds.

Patience seemed to be the key here, as they waited for the chicks to grow and the birds to hatch more eggs, feeding them wheat and oat grain, apples, and carrot tops. Jespar's mouth watered at the thought of eating protein at this point, and his patience was getting watery. It ended with him bringing a freshly-shot bird to their fire pit for dinner one evening, and Kaslyn not complaining at all.

 

...

 

Jespar, even with his newly acquired skills for farming and poultry-keep, still had the intense desire for exercise. He generally walked a span of the island a few times a day, normally accompanied by Kaslyn, as they talked about things that needed to be done or things apart of an old life, or even what she had found in the old archives or workshops in the main building.

The other thing he did was still practice with his blades. He made a dummy that could withstand his beatings, as he trained with his daggers. Two pieces of a lifetime that he wouldn't need anymore, and yet never wanted to forget.

Kaslyn never joined him with his training, although she often watched, since he normally did it shirtless. And yet most of the time he felt she never really watched him. A faraway look in her eyes as she focused on things that were better ignored, and normally wouldn't respond until he called her name softly a few times.

He never asked if she wanted to participate, since he had watched as she had sunk her sword, which had been with her through thick and thin, into the land, overlooking the edge of the island.

It still stood there, rusted and beaten, as it braved the salute to a world and its people that no longer existed.

 

...

 

Jespar would never not admit that some of his favorite moments where when they decided not to leave bed for the day.

Her warm body cradled against his, skin still freckled with sweat, her breathing even and calm, he felt at peace himself.

In times like this, he could imagine pretty well. That they were just inside some abnormally quiet inn. That they were sleeping underneath the stars in Lethonia. That they still, even after all this time, were on the roads of Enderal, living day to day in a world that had no boundaries.

But it was too late for that now.

 

 ...

 

Time continued to pass in this endless, timeless world. How long has it been, again?

 

...

 

"Jespar? How are you feeling? Cold?"

Jespar looked upwards to Kaslyn's face, wrought with worry. His eye sight was blurry, and he had a hard time focusing on her pretty features. It made him chuckle. Had he ever been sick like this before? Probably some odd, floating-island disease.

"Just a little," he said, his voice feeble and weary. He felt very tired, though. "Kas, have you watered the garden for me today? I think I forgot to do it yesterday."

"I will," she told him, stroking his wrinkled cheek. She didn't have the heart to think about how overgrown the garden was. "Don't worry. Do you want to go back to bed?"

"What time is it? Morning, or is it night?"

"It's early morning. The sun hasn't risen yet."

"Oh, then," Jespar said, his eyebrows furrowing. "Would you take me to the mountain side then? I want to see… the sunrise."

"Of course, love…"

The journey took time, moving slowly with Jespar's careful steps, encased in the gray morning air. Kaslyn rested her hand on his hunched shoulders, which were covered with a thin blanket. By the time they made it to the edge of the cliff, the sun was already rising.

She helped him sit down and get comfortable, tucking the blanket in for him, as his blurred eyes, which would always be beautiful to her, stared at the ocean sky.

"It's amazing how quiet it is here," Jespar said. "Kaslyn, darling, aren't you cold? It's so cold out here."

She rubbed his shoulders and back. "Just a little," she said.

"Do you want my blanket?"

"No, I'm fine, thank you."

"Do you want to share?"

She smiled and kissed him on the forehead. "It's okay."

"Kaslyn, do you know where Adila is?"

"She's not here right now. I'm sure she'll be waiting for you, though."

"Hm, I do miss that we never met back up…"

"Yes you did, remember? All was forgiven."

"Is that so? I… can't seem to remember. Must be this illness."

"It must be," Kaslyn said softly, brushing back his thinning hair.

"Kas?"

"Yes?"

"Did you regret it?"

"I…" she leaned his head on her shoulder. "No, I don't regret one moment."

"I'm glad," he said. She felt tears drip onto her shoulder. "I was afraid… that you regretted coming here."

"Did you?"

"I - No. I don't think I did. There were things I… missed. But I don't regret it…"

Quietly, his breathing slowed as he leaned on her shoulder. "Just look at that sunrise, Kas," he said. "Isn't this the most beautiful place you've ever seen?"

Even long after his breathing had stilled, Kaslyn stayed until the sun was rising again.

* * *

 


	8. Song for a Lost Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the end of the Path of The Wise Man, Constantine Firespark met his fate.

* * *

 

 

"By the Lightborn's hairy toes," Firespark said, stretching backwards, hands on his lower back, trying to work out the kink that had suddenly manifested. "Those young kids' sprinting around like it's nothing. When did pieces of me get so old?"

With the three doorway trials showing up in the Living Temple, Firespark didn't leave a choice when it came to taking the Path of The Wise Man, for he believed he was the only feasible one to go down this path. Then he watched the two children, who acted like they weren't interested in each other, decide amongst themselves which path they would take. Firespark hadn't been in the romantic game in many decades, but he would have been a dented kettle to not see that Joseph lost a few points by making the girl head down the Path of the Dark One, as he took the Path of the Warrior. Her eyes narrowed, but Josepher just smiled cheekily.

Idiots.

Now Firespark was walking down a blank hallway that smelled of heavy mold and moisture laden must. There seemed to be very little down this pathway besides cobwebs and moss. The hallway seemed long and lonely, and irritated Firespark for some reason. Was this whole thing to only make him walk to death? What was this madness? Were the others doing something more aerobic, or about the same? Or was the Temple trying to amuse this old man by not giving him anything to do? Because Firespark was not amused.

If Lishari was here, she would just laugh at his irritation. To him though, it may have softened his irritation. Her dark, velvety eyes would have smiled. She would have said something along the lines of, "Come on, old man. You're grumpy if there's nothing to gripe about, and grumpy if there is. You need to make up your mind one day."

He will _not_ , of course. But he allowed her to think that he may, one day, do so.

A gust of wind, unexplainably, came from behind him. He resisted the urge to turn around.

In another few moments of the bizarre breeze, the light of the hallway grew remarkably dim. Did the lights lose their light? Did he suddenly lose his vision? It didn't matter. Two can play at that game. Firespark knew that the hallway continued, so he knew all he had to do was walk straight, he thought as he bumped into a wall.

"Hmmm," he mumbled. It didn't matter. Two could _still_ play at that game.

Now cradling a small ball of fire within his palm, he assessed that it was indeed a wall he had run into. Actually, three of the four ways were blocked. And the open way was not the one he had just come from. He was pretty sure.

From that direction, he heard a voice.

It was a female, singing low and mournful. For a moment, Firespark thought it was the Prophetess, but he also thought better of her. To just be sitting there singing in a time like this? Disgraceful.

But as he inched down the hallway, getting irritated that he was losing his sense of direction, he evaluated that the voice couldn't have been from the Prophetess woman. The singing was too phantom, too sad, and too in tune to be the Prophetess.

It grew louder as he moved forward.

He realized that she wasn't singing words, not even words of an ancient language. Just mindless babbling, he supposed. Very heartbreaking, mournful babbling.

It was then that he stumbled into a wide chamber. The light went out in his palm without his say so. The room was dim, but at least visible. And cold. Like throwing a naked baby into a drift of snow.

Firespark's breath fumed in front of him as he sidled into the circular room.

The singing stopped.

He sidled a little quieter.

The room was peculiar. Within the center was a large stone table. Marred and beaten down, much like the rest of the temple. Within the wider berth of the room, candelabras circled the circumference. The candles were long gone, and yet it seemed to be where the light was emanating from.

Firespark, recognizing a ritual room when he saw one, turned his back on it, to continue down the other hallway, which seemed to grow significantly brighter as it went along.

He hoped it wasn't the way he just came from.

"You were always good at getting yourself into trouble, sister."

Firespark spun around, hoping his whiskers were not standing on end like a frightened cat. His fingers tingled with magic on the tips. But what faced him wasn't faceable.

Shadowy blue figures were present in the room, two a little brighter than others. To them, Firespark wasn't even in the same room as they were. Pyreans? It could only be…

A woman sat on the stone table. She was both hard to see and yet Firespark could make out every detail of her. Her long, black hair reminded him of someone he had lost long ago.

"Brother, please," she said. Pleaded. "The mistake was mine, please don't hurt him."

The brother watched her with hard, cold eyes, which might have been soft once before. "You're married to one of the highest-status nobles you could be wed to. And yet you abandon your oaths and you run with another man. Do you understand what you have done?"

"Please don't hurt him," she whispered.

"It's too late for that," the brother said, a sneer twisting his mouth. "Perhaps you'd like to say goodbye to him? Or at least, the pieces that are left of him?"

The woman sobbed and covered her eyes, her voice wailed in mournful song.

Firespark turned to leave, but apparently the entrance had decided to leave as well.

"So, sister, it is here you will stay as you reflect upon your heinous decisions. Are you ready to bear responsibility to stay forever in a home you destroyed? Where your husband never returned to because he couldn't ever bear to touch a soiled woman? And who knows, my sister, you may even see how this Cleansing business turns out. Good bye."

Firespark could hardly believe his ears. If Lishari was to hear this…

Being tasked to live forever wasn't an honor amongst the Pyreans.

It was an eternal punishment.

The woman sitting on the stone table screamed in her last stretch of defiance.

Something grabbed Firespark's shoulders and pulled him through the wall.

 

 

Firespark didn't know where he was. He was both dizzy and nauseous and yet at the same time felt like he was twenty years old again. How inconvenient. The sky was splashed with every color imaginable. Outlines of people floated like clouds amongst the colors.

"We are our own ending…" the woman's voice said.

"Hello?" he said. His wit must have been a little frayed. "Where am I?"

The whole world beat like a heart around him. His hands shook.

"The Cleansing…" the voice said. "The last Cleansing…"

"You… are you the Temple?" he asked, thinking the question sounded ridiculous out loud.

"Am I the temple…? It's been so long… It's happening again… But I know how to stop it…"

"Know how to stop the Cleansing?" Firespark's ears both seemed to perk and yet he felt himself recoil. "Absurd…?"

"But it's happening the same way…!" the world around Firespark reverberated around him with her irritation. He decided maybe it was better not to anger something when he was residing in its consciousness.

"I'll be going now," Firespark said. Somehow.

"The Prophet must die… you can stop this… please." The world around him cried tears that flooded his entire being. "I don't want to be alone anymore…will you help me?"

She had such long, beautiful hair. Like someone he had lost long ago.

Firespark tried to take a deep breath, but he couldn't breathe.

In that moment, her consciousness crashed into his own. A sadness that withered his being. The destruction and rebirth of a whole world. A loneliness that touched the core of his very soul.

He could see everything. She didn't hold back. _Wouldn't_ hold back. Even as he screamed for her to stop.

He watched as the Red Madness unfolded. Watched as the Prophet searched for the Black Stones. As the Cleansing was triggered. The Cleansing was _their own_ fault. The blinding, blinding white light. The fire, the burnt, blackened flesh. Then the eternal sadness of nothingness. And a loneliness that lasted forever.

 

 

_He saw everything._

And she told him how he could stop it, too.

_But he couldn't stop them._

_Why why why couldn't they understand?_

_If only he could have made them understand. Was there anything left to do to make them understand? He understood. Deep down, why couldn't they, too?_

_Why couldn't they see?_

_It was US. It was US. It was US._

_We are the SIN._

_It was also THEM._

_The plan from the High Ones was already in place. It was. It could be seen in the very eyes of the person acting as the Prophet. You would be nothing without the High Ones. They created the perfect puppet for their perfect story to bring them to their perfect ending._

_Everything would end the same way. If only he had been strong enough to stop them._

_Maybe he could have stopped the blinding white light._

_Maybe he could have stopped the charred, crispy flesh._

_Maybe they could have changed the course of time._

_Maybe… it was too late, anyway._


	9. The Little Things Give You Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Jespar and Lysia, it always ended this way.

* * *

 

Jespar moved into the camp with the utmost care. He treaded as if he were stepping on silk, to keep the twigs from snapping underneath his boots. He breathed quietly, knowing that a particular someone's ears were keener than even his were.

The campfire burned low, mostly a smolder, filled with blistering embers which glowed against the soft breeze. One of the bedrolls were undone and looked like it had been vacated very recently. His bedroll was still tightly wrapped up, and he was impressed it wasn't at the bottom of the nearby lake.

Lysia could be reasonable, but she also didn't always play fair.

In fact, it didn't look like she was anywhere to be found.

He let out the sigh he had been holding, and let his guard down for the second when something tapped him on the shoulder.

Most would have whipped around, weapons drawn, ready to fight. Jespar, on the other hand, knew that fast movements could lead to Lysia winning faster. Their game of cat and mouse normally ended with Lysia winning, where she would brag about her sneaky tricks and got to be on top that night.

"Two days later, Jespar. I thought you got lost on your way back to camp."

"I left my pipe here, and my handy frying pan – couldn't leave those behind."

"You're sure your pipe is still here?"

"Lysia, you wouldn't…"

"Did you leave anything else behind, Jespar?"

"You, of course."

"I'm sure." She walked around him, the hand on his shoulder dragging across the back of his neck, and the fingers trailing across his unshaven jawline as she came to stand in front of him.

The touch left a dangerous sensation glossed over his skin, mostly because she had that feral look in her eye. Her entire stance held a don't-fuck-with-me attitude, and it was becoming mutual – the whole thing had made him edgy.

Sometimes the cork on the bottle would just pop – the whole thing would blow over. She would kiss him or he would kiss her and they would forget the whole thing. Jespar had a niggling feeling it wouldn't be the case tonight.

When she removed her hand, it was a bad sign – there would be no being pulled into a rough kiss. She crossed her arms, knowingly bringing attention to her breasts as she jiggled them on purpose, the laces partially undone.

Lysia didn't play fair.

"So, can we talk about it?" she said, as she dropped her weight onto her right hip. She didn't meet his eyes, but instead stared aimlessly ahead – eyes unfocused, seeming as if she were staring at his chest but more like she was staring through it.

He sighed, for the umpteenth time tonight. He felt exhausted. "Lysia, there's nothing to say that you didn't already know about me."

_That_ made her eyes focus. Also made her eyebrows lower, her mouth set, and her relaxed stance go rigid…

Lysia was a fighter. She had been before Jespar had met her, and would continue to be afterwards. The first night they had met, in a rundown tavern with watered down beer, she had thrown someone on top of him. In hadn't been on purpose, presumably. She had just been fed up with another patron's insistent hands on her, and Jespar had happened to be in the way of her line of fire.

Looking up from his position on the floor and seeing her, with her tousled hair and intense eyes and slightly groggy drunkenness, it would be a lie to say that he hadn't immediately fallen in love.

Or at least, Jespar's version of it. After talking about adventuring and scavenging, and the most daring things they had ever done to acquire an artifact or object, as they drank too much and ate too little, as they fell in love with laughs and smiles and eyes and frivolous features of wanting.

As they fell into bed, his hands all over her, her mouth all over him, as the starlight shone through the window.

He should have known that her fervor with life, her infatuation with feeling thrilled, the way she seemed to burn so bright it hurt… he should have known the flames would have got him eventually.

"No," Lysia said, a thick drawl, "You're just trying to make a point." She puffed up her shoulders and mockingly deepened her voice. "'You can't tell me what to do or who to sleep with, Lysia darling. I can't stand being held down or someone having expectations of me and what I should do. Because –" she dropped her eyes, her voice rising back to its normal pitch. "Because I might disappoint them, or I might be less than what they had thought I was."

Now it was his turn to cross his arms, but the lame physical barrier didn't do much in ways of protection. His whole voice sounded and reflected the annoyance of the entire conversation. "I told you to knock it off."

"Uh, yeah, like you ever listen when I tell you to cut it out. You have heard that what annoys you the most in other people is what annoys you in yourself, right?"

"You could take that advice yourself. Fine, I'll listen as your ego explains itself."

"My ego." Her eyes seemed to ignite. " _My_ ego! You're the one who ran off to sleep with the first whore you saw just because we had argued about it. I'm not trying to control who you sleep with, Jespar… I just want to know why you take it so far. Do you do it because you're really attracted to someone, or is it because it's your way of informing people that they don't have any control over you?"

Jespar was quiet and steeled, so she continued.

With an arm hanging down at her side, she reached over and grabbed her elbow with her other hand, forming a type of half-hug. The petty ways people tried to guard themselves.

"Come on, Jespar," she said. "It's not about you sleeping with other people – I don't care about it – but I don't think it's about that. You don't do it for the reason that you're suddenly so head-over-heels attracted to someone. You're afraid because if you do commit to a single person, and if that single person learns too much about you, then you wouldn't be a gallant knight anymore, but a scared, hopeless man who doesn't have much to live for."

With downcast eyes, she said, "I just wish you would talk to me."

If Lysia was fire, then he was ice. Life ignited her and sent her through the day burning and on fire, passionate and hot. Jespar stayed cool and level-headed, and didn't allow himself to be over-heated and fried. Even with the friendly atmosphere he gave off, there was a cold detachment no one knew about – a man encased in ice up to his outstretched arm, always keeping people away at that distance.

Lysia was no exception.

He sighed again and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to force himself to relax. It seemed too late for that, though. By the Lightborn, did he need a good drag of peaceweed…

For once, Lysia's fire seemed to have dimmed. She looked exhausted, too. He saw lines underneath her eyes he had never seen before.

It was so awful, when he really stopped to look at the situation. They were wrong for each other; they exhausted each other – they lied, cheated, and argued. But as far as Jespar was concerned, there was no such thing as a healthy relationship once you got to know each other.

"Okay, Lysia," he said, as he turned away from her. "Whatever you say."

And with those words, she deflated. He heard her heave a sigh, heard her boots shift in the dirt as she readjusted her posture, heard her movements as she came up behind him and –

Wrap her arms around his waist, head lying against the middle of his back. She squeezed tightly, and it made Jespar realize that throughout their entire time of traveling and being together, they had never once hugged. And the cozy, after-sex embraces didn't count.

She held on tightly, until he carefully untangled her hands from around his waist.

"I'm going to… get more firewood," he said, and started to wander off, not even taking the time to look back at her crestfallen face, or to see the full wood pile Lysia had already collected.

"I know that phrase," she said, calling after him. "It's a man's way of saying 'I'm not dealing with this shit.'"

Jespar didn't answer, didn't look back, not even to see her furiously rubbing tears from her eyes.

Something squirmed in his chest that felt like emotion, but he had a hard time getting it out if he wasn't drunk or high. Maybe he was angry, but he couldn't tell, and in the end, it didn't really matter.

If she could so boldly claim that she had him all figured out, then she could deal with it. Sometimes it was easier to make them suffer for trying to figure it out, leave them alone and wonder if he would ever come back, because then it was easier when they just left him. It was simpler that way.

Even if Lysia was the only one to stay this long, they all followed the same pattern. They were bored with each other finally, and he only needed to kick the knife into the wedge a few more times before it was over. Let her think it was her idea, let her believe it was her decision. Let her be the one to leave.

After all, Jespar didn't play fair.


	10. The Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Your Path, Calia, will be one only you will walk."

* * *

 

"She deserves as much of a chance as anyone."

"Master Tyras, have you gone mad? She is a Pathless. Not only is she Pathless, she is an inferior individual in general. No parents, no township, no memory. She is a nobody. Except for the fact that she may be a witch."

"If these are the only facts you can present, then they go against you to. Who are you to say she isn't Sublime, if she has no memory of her past?"

"Tyras, please. If Malphas saw fit to take her memory away from her, than it shows where he has decided to place her in the world. We've humored you long enough – we've let you adopt her, take her into the Sun Palace, and raise her amongst us, but for her to begin the Novitiate? Train amongst the Sublimes? Take classes alongside them and learn the true ways of Malphas as a Pathless? The entire notion is absurd."

"You can scoff, but you already know what she is a capable of. Compared to your students? You turn your head the other way. She can repeat the Holy Scripture front to back without it before her. She can literally run circles around the other students when it comes to physical exertion and prowess. She speaks the Holy Verses every night before she retires, and prays only to Malphas. She is respectable. She listens to her teachers. She is intelligent, and devoted. What more do you ask of from your Novices, much less of your Keepers?"

"…Tyras, to allow this will be ridicule, for both her, and you. Are you sure you are willing to accept this reality?"

"To give her the chance to become the person that she does not believe she is, I would give my life."

 

* * *

 

 

"Sa'Ira, were you listening at the door? Eavesdropping is rude, you know."

Calia, who had been outside the door to the study, clutched a book of the Holy Scripture to her chest. She felt her teenage years harshly, for it left her a mess of gangly limbs, a little too tall, ears that seemed a bit too big for her face, short hair that she had cut herself, and clothes which didn't quite fit.

And to make all things worse, the mark seared into her cheek. Always a reminder that even when she eventually grew out of her teenage years, she would always still feel out of place and self-conscious.

"Father, I just – I apologize. I saw you and followed you and I didn't mean to listen… please forgive me."

"Please, Sa'Ira, do not be so hard on yourself. Sometimes curiosity is a blessing. Come, let's take a walk. I want to speak with you."

She kept herself quiet as they walked the gardens, but she felt butterflies in her stomach. Little whirlwinds of rushing emotion swirling inside her. Dare she say… excitement?

Could she, of all people, become a Novice?

Or even… a Keeper?

As they walked, they passed people that had learned not to give her even a sidelong glance. The passersby kept their eyes straight ahead, or nervously shifted them away, as if anything else but her had become suddenly very interesting.

It hadn't been like that when she had first arrived. In the beginning, she had been a spectacle. A Pathless individual from the Undercity who had been granted access into the Sun Palace. Who had rumors surrounding her that she was a witch. For a time she remained interesting, because she was the only thorn on a rosebush which had been stripped of its barbs.

But as time waned on, the interest faded, too. Novices and trainees started to avoid her. She was not the dark, mysterious lady they had been anticipating, but a withdrawn, nervous girl who merely carried rumors around with her.

It all became mundane, daily practice to her. To keep her mask of patience and serenity in place as she wilted behind it.

Master Tyras chuckled as she fidgeted, wringing her hands on the banister outside of the Scuola, which helped keep people from free-falling over the edge into the city below.

"Sa'Ira." He spoke softly, as if he were letting her in on a secret. "These chances do not come many times. I have more faith in you and Malphas than most people have in their little toe, and I believe that he is guiding me to show you a Path. Maybe it is not one of his designated Paths he gave to the Enderaleans, but it is a Path you will walk on your own. Can you do that, Sa'Ira?"

"I can, Father…" she stared as the gulls soared below them. "If I may ask, why do you have so much faith in me? I feel like you've misplaced it."

"That is like saying that I misplaced my faith in Malphas."

Calia colored. It had not been what she had meant to imply, but he simply smiled at her.

"Sa'Ira, I know what you fear, but you mustn't. That creature inside of you is no match for _you_. The feeling of being weak-minded is only in your head. Are you still doing those meditations I showed you?"

"Every night, father."

"You are a mirror version of Selna herself."

"Father! That's too much praise!"

But she couldn't help it – she smiled. Sometimes the days felt so dark even when the sun was shining. Days that, when they came to a close, she couldn't remember what she had even done with the day. Devoting herself completely to Malphas helped ease that shadowy spiral inside her, but she felt it was still always watching, waiting to devour her the moment she stopped paying attention.

"Calia, you look sad again." Tyras reached out and cupped her face. Her eyes, which held the weight of her world, wouldn't look him in the face. He pulled her forward and kissed her on top of the forehead.

"My Sa'Ira," he said, holding her close. "I do have a confession. And you may think it selfish of me, but… I plan to use you as proof. I plan to show through you that Malphas speaks through more than just his 'chosen' Sublimes… I – oh, there you go, you're clenching your hands again. You do realize how your nervous habits give you away, my dear?

He reached out, encasing her pale hand into his dark-skinned ones.

"I do not mean to put a burden on you, Sa'Ira, for you already carry so much weight on your shoulders. The only thing I want you to do is promise me this: that if you continue to be the true person you are on the inside then you may find that life is not as much of a burden as you think it is…"

_Yes it is._

She wished, she wished, she wished she could believe the words he spoke to her. To know he wasn't lying about the words he said. And sometimes it would work for a few hours, a few days, – a few weeks at the most – before it crumbled again, and she fell back down the hole where she started. A place where all she could do was listen to her own words of discouragement and misery about how her story was already written to fail.

Calia swallowed the words, and allowed her mask to smile quietly. "Yes, Father."

 

* * *

 


	11. The Old Watchtower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Should your holy duties allow it, meet me at the old watchtower at the Southern gate of Ark."

* * *

 

 

Jespar had to finally admit it to himself. She wasn’t what he had been expecting.

It wasn’t his fault for his perceived ideas of her in the beginning – she really had completely seemed a dunce. Then again, Kaslyn had been practically made out of upheaval and exhaustion. Maybe it wasn’t her fault she always seemed to say things that got on his nerves. She hadn’t quite been in her right mind, in the height of her confusion and Arcane fever.

Sometimes he still asked himself why exactly he invited her that night in the Dancing Nomad. The whole scenario of the peculiar situation had been somewhat compelling. Finding her unconscious in the brush, working with her on his Riverville job – it had felt weird. He hadn’t worked with anyone so closely since Lysia, but Kaslyn was as far from a ‘Lysia’ as she could get.

It mostly left the rushing of thoughts of _What are you doing now? Don’t get yourself into this situation._

_Don’t do this again._

He made sure he kept himself in order. He truly just wanted to get to know her better – that was it. People did that, right? Wasn’t that how you made friends?

She had been refreshing to talk to in the tavern. Although Jespar didn’t want to go so far as to say it was nice to be listened to during one of his philosophical talks… but it had been. He berated himself for it. How petty it was. Then he always seemed to finish with a thought of her smile.

No, she was a friend. He would not engage such thoughts.

Now here he was. Waiting at the bottom of the watchtower, leaning against the stone and twirling his pipe in his hands as he looked out towards the roadway. There was no sight of her, though, and he chewed on the stem of his empty pipe in contemplation.  
She hadn’t showed up on time when he was waiting in the tavern, either. It had been cut so close he really thought she wasn’t going to show. He couldn’t blame her completely, but in the moment it had felt so unfortunate. And it was the first correspondence they’ve had since he had told her he was going to shove off to Kilé. Maybe she thought he had been jesting about this get-together, since the feasibility of him being here probably seemed pretty slim.

It hadn’t been a lie – he really had planned to board ship to Kilé. Nothing happened or went against the fact that he could still go, besides him simply changing his mind.

He knew better than this though – he was going to regret this, wasn’t he? In a few weeks, he’s going to have wished he went to Kilé. The slight sinking feeling in his gut should have been the warning sign.

Then he saw a certain figure on the road. He tucked his pipe away and straightened up. He deliberately leaned against the wall, debating on which position would make him most seem like he hadn’t been waiting for her hopefully. With a final throat-clearing finish and readjustment of his collar, he waited – ‘carelessly’ – for her to arrive.

“Hey, there you are,” he said, with a clear smile and cloudy conscious.

“I’m sorry if you’ve been waiting long.” Kaslyn held his presumed letter a bit awkwardly in her hand. “I couldn’t figure out which one was the southern watchtower, and happened to get lost in Ark…”

She clutched the letter and ran her fingers of her other hand through her close-cut hair at the base of her neck. “It admittedly took me awhile to read it, too. Hey, what does ‘cordially’ mean?”

“Well – warm, friendly… courteous. All those insincere things people sign letters with. Do you… not read very well?”

With a shoulder shrug and a self-conscious smile which didn’t reach her eyes, she said, “I wasn’t ever taught when I was young… I learned somewhat when I was older and on the Ostian docks with the help of somebody, but mostly just enough to get by. And I’m really, really slow at it.”

When he stared at her a little too sadly, Kaslyn pushed at his shoulder lightly. It would have been a shame, though – escapism hadn’t even been possible through literature for her.

She gave a broad smile, trying to break up the awkward tension.

“You don’t have to look at me like that. It doesn’t matter – I’ve gotten along well enough. Although when you’re illiterate… people tend to sneer at you. I wasn’t of very high standing though, so I was used to it.”

A sad smile coupled with sad eyes.

“I wouldn’t listen to those people, that’s for sure,” Jespar said, tapping his fingers on the wall behind him. “As the Wise Hermit says, ‘you can’t judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree.’”

She smiled and chuckled. “I like that. People can judge pretty harshly. You know the weird thing is – after nearly drowning – I could read better than I used to. It comes smoother now, even if I’m still a little slow. Maybe I hit my head when I fell and it fixed that part or something.” She tapped her head with a sagely expression.

A crisp breeze carried along the mountain air, bringing just enough chill to make one want to wrap their arms closer around themselves.

“Let’s go up,” Jespar said, bringing the situation back to his original plan. “I have something I want to show you.”

As they walked the steps, it brought the curiosity back stronger than before. He couldn’t quite ask the right questions surrounding her, because she didn’t even know the answers—

She stared into her brandy with hesitation —

—He almost panicked when Lysia came up within the topic of conversation, dulled and veiled to the point that it wasn’t even the same story.

A retelling of what had happened to her in the depths of the Whisperwood and its mysterious trial—

—And she flirted with him, and her smile, and he wished he had boarded the boat to Kilé.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Not actually said by the Wise Hermit.
> 
> This is accurate to how the game went for me. I always seemed to say the things in the beginning that would get on Jespar’s nerves, and yet was still able to romance him at the end with no tampering to the game mechanics. They really did end up getting along as the friendship progressed, in the end.
> 
> (I also for the life of me couldn’t find the tower while trying to navigate Ark, even with the marker…)


End file.
